


Fables

by everythingispoetry



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Memories, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingispoetry/pseuds/everythingispoetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas: five first-times over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fables

 

1974

Tony is four and far too old to believe in Santa. He knows his parents buy him things and Jarvis wraps them with colorful paper neatly to put them under the tree. The boxes should be teasing, waiting to be opened for over a week, but Tony is too busy to think about it.

This year father promised Tony will be able to stay with the adults, instead of being sent away to his room after getting his gifts and being put to sleep far too early – but it’s not what he’s most excited about.

Mother promised to take him for _messa di mezzanotte_ to the Italian church she attends once a year.

‘You’re an grown-up boy,’ she tells him a few days before; Tony knows it’s a lie, you’re not a grown-up until you’re eighteen, at least, but he doesn’t point that out. ‘You just need to be still and well-behaved, okay?’

Tony nods.

Father stays home and it’s Maria who drives them across the snow-covered streets. They are dressed in thick elegant coats and polished shoes and leather gloves.

The church is so big and crowded that Tony takes mother’s hand voluntarily and keeps close. There are Christmas trees and a real _presepio_ with handmade figurines and songs that Tony hears for the first time in his life. He doesn’t think God exists – father always tells him it’s a joke – but everything smells like incense and Tony’s hot in his clothes and under the twinkling light of candles and fairy lights he thinks it’s a bit magical.

 

 

1991

There isn’t any dinner this year: Tony had Jarvis cancel all arrangements. He couldn’t begin to bother with phone calls and hearing people’s words and talking to them; that’s what he has employees for – employees and friends.

There is a Christmas tree in the mansion’s hall, completely bare. It was supposed to be decorated any day now, with the ornaments and tinsels waiting in one of the nearby storage rooms for Maria’s decision about the colors they’d have this year.

No one is going to make a decision.

Tony doesn’t look up when he passes the tree every time he goes up and down the main staircase, his steps echoing in the empty space – space that will remain empty. There’s no going back, no changing timelines. It’s only Tony’s footsteps now. It would be the housekeepers’ and Jarvis’, if they dared to be around whenever Tony ventures out of his rooms.

The mansions feels like a big tomb, all wood and marble, getting covered with a layer of snow that gets steadily thicker every hour. Just like the gravestones.

In the middle of the night Tony shouts at no one in particular, the anger burning inside, his voice flowing down the halls, not sure anyone is even there, and gets all drunk on eggnog which sounds particularly pathetic. When he falls asleep, finally, not too long before the late dawn, he feels more empty than ever before. It’s ridiculous, he hasn’t lived at home for years and he _really_ hates – hated his father and Maria isn’t – wasn’t, damn it, wasn’t much to him anymore, but all of sudden he isn’t sure he can bear this.

When he wakes up, probably halfway through the Christmas brunch time, he has Jarvis call the only Jewish pilot SI has in New York, Tony knows the man doesn’t celebrate holidays, and gets his ass across America to the house in California.

It feels like spring there, if he squints, so he pretends it’s spring.

 

 

2001

There was a Stark Industries Christmas party just three days ago, on the last Saturday before the holiday week, and Obie sent Tony home halfway through it. Tony protested, of course, but honesty he was thankful: he was sneezing and coughing, his head hurt like hell and he probably didn’t look anywhere near his best.

He’s never been sick on Christmas – well, he hardly ever gets sick – and he has to admit it feels totally crappy.

It’s not like the day is that special, he isn’t religious and hates the commercialism surrounding the event and the themed songs everywhere, _all_ the time, but he’s grown used to making the day special with whoever he wasn’t dating that year.

Now it’s just him, Dummy, You, and Happy. Admittedly, Happy fancies the holiday atmosphere and made sure to have it all Christmasy on his floor in the house, so when Tony tells him he’ll stay home instead of going to Europe like he planned, Happy just nods and says, ‘Sure, boss.’

Before they start _celebrating_ , Tony asks Happy is he’s okay with the bots being around.

‘No one should be alone for Christmas,’ Happy tells him with a wide cheesy smile, as if he were quoting a bad movie and was very proud of it. Tony isn’t sure.

The bots make their way downstairs and Happy decorates their frames with tinsel, and then sighs unhappily.

‘What is it?’

‘Didn’t know they’d join us,’ Happy grumbles, ‘I don’t have presents for them.’

Tony blinks from his sofa where he’s drinking hot honey-lemon infusion to help his sore throat, and then stares at the bots.

‘It’s not like they care?’

‘Of course they do,’ Happy huffs and then points at the staircase; there are two big stockings hanging there, he notices, and instantly feels like a terrible person inside because he’s a damn billionaire and he forgot to get Happy something.

He hasn’t notices them before because he always uses the elevator. That’s not an excuse.

‘Well, dunno what you give robots anyway,’ he laughs, the sound quiet and harsh, and the bots chirp happily at the word _robots_. ‘Maybe new hardware, hmm, kids?’

They chirp some more and Tony ignores Happy’s amused snicker.

He makes his way to the dining room a moment later. There is turkey and gingerbread and the whole shebang and Tony doesn’t admit it, but he’s pretty impressed. It doesn’t make him feel less crappy but sitting by the table in a warm dressing gown and soft slippers hugging his feet has a certain appeal to it.

When Happy goes to the kitchen to make them some mock mulled wine, Tony excuses himself – _nature calls, buddy –_ and quickly makes his way upstairs to get something. On his way back he sneaks the keys to the new sports Audi he bought a few days ago, which is still undergoing some Tony-requested changes, and wipes the smile off his face when Happy enters the room with big glasses of spice-scented goodness.

Happy got Tony _a lot_ of cheesy holiday candy.

‘Know your doctor wouldn’t approve,’ Happy explains, petting You’s arm absentmindedly, ‘but it’s holidays. So you get to do whatever you want on holidays.’

Tony nods, he can’t really reply as he’s just put this huge Christmas tree-shaped lollipop into his mouth, and then takes another thing from the stocking, a get well card, pin-up style, with a picture of a half-naked girl sitting in an old car – almost like an old postcard – and saying _Get well! I’m waiting._

‘Thanks, bud,’ Tony mutters around the lollipop, smiling widely. Happy nods and then starts to take things out form his own stocking.

‘I like Christmas candy,’ he explains the mountain of sweets that appears in front of him. Some of it was wrapped with paper – _family sent stuff over,_ Tony nods at that – and then he gets to the bottom and takes out the keys.

‘You’re joking,’ he says seriously, dangling them in front of Tony’s face.

‘You drive my cars as much as I do anyway,’ Tony says, a little bit defensively, unsure if it’s socially acceptable to give someone such a gift. ‘And that Merc of yours? Old. Ugly, Totally unacceptable,’ he adds teasingly; it’s a classic old car that Tony loves and Happy knows it.

‘Well, if you’re nice, boss, maybe I’ll take you for a ride,’ Happy decides, weighing the keys in his hand and then slipping them into the pocket of his pants and turning his attention back to the chocolate Santa.

When Tony is falling asleep, later in the evening, he realizes he didn’t drink a drop of alcohol all day long and it makes him strangely content.

 

 

2010

The soft breeze from the ocean is still a novelty and Tony wonders if the feeling will ever go away.

This year, everything seems like a novelty; Tony constantly has the impression that he’s just opened his eyes and everything else was no more than a hazy dream, a simulacrum of reality. He sees more and smells more and listens more, he pays more attention to things and _does_ more.

Iron Man does more.

The suit is, admittedly, pretty season-themed with its reds and golds, but Tony hopes he won’t get to dress up today. He’s wearing a three piece, pointlessly because he’s not going anywhere and both Pepper and Happy have time off to visit their friends and families, a rare luxury in service of Tony Stark. Rhodey is – somewhere across the ocean. He didn’t get the privilege to come back home, maybe because he wasn’t able to influence his best friend and talk him into going back to serving military dogs, maybe because that’s what life is like. Annoying as hell.

So it’s Tony, JARVIS, and the ocean.

There wasn’t any bothering with a tree this year, or gifts, or twinkling lights. There is a wreath in the living room, a souvenir from one of Tony’s business partners, only because it has herbs stuck between the fir branches and it fills the space with a lovely scent.

Tony ignores the numbness in his limbs as he finally brings himself to get up from the sofa, stretching his back in the strangely comfortable crisp clothes.

He pours himself some of the best whiskey he has – celebration time, right? – and sips it, walking out of the house onto the balcony in slow unsure steps. The sun is hazy, hidden behind thin clouds, and the horizon is blurred by soft mist raising as the twilight starts crawling onto the sky.

After he’s had another glass, giving JARVIS a look before the A.I. can comment, he wraps a coat around his shoulders and goes down to the beach.

There aren’t any stars on the sky yet and there won’t be, it’s covered with dark clouds, visible only because of the last ray of sun that’s just descended into the sea. Tony breathes is the salty air, soothing to his hurting lungs, soothing to his tense muscles, soothing to the dull headache he’s been nursing for too long.

He sits down and the sand under his limbs is most and grainy, cold to touch. So different from – from the other sand. It’s a pleasure to let this sand run between his fingers and back onto the beach, spilling over his clothes just a little bit.

Breath in, breath out, breath in, Tony tries to remember how to breathe properly, without choking on the air that his body is craving for almost painfully, as he feels a deep belly laughter building up, and he lets it out with his voice, the sound harsh and so happy.

He used to think Christmas was a somehow special time, and everyone else seems to think that, too, but now – now every day is a damn miracle.

 

 

2012

‘Just fifteen minutes and it’ll be ready,’ Clint says after he closes the oven. He looks strangely comfortable in an apron, with a towel thrown over his shoulder.

Bruce and Steve nod simultaneously, not aware of each other’s reaction as they’re both concentrating on their own tasks.

Tony feels like an intruder, standing unnoticed in the doorway.

‘Just go in,’ a quiet voice behind him says and he almost jumps, startled, but manages to remain his dignity as he scowls at Natasha. ‘It’s your house. And we don’t bite.’

Tony sighs, mentally assessing his tiredness level and the time he can stay up without starting to talk sleep-deprived nonsense and spoiling the team’s holidays. It’s not a great number, he has to admit. He’s just come back from a trip to Asia and his internal clock is adjusted to somewhere across the ocean. Being in New York doesn’t make it better.

It makes sleeping seem even less possible.

‘Come on,’ Natasha urges him, placing a finger in the middle of his back and pushing him lightly. ‘It’s just dinner. No big deal.’

‘I’m not saying it’s a big deal,’ Tony grumbles, rubbing his eyes, and then puts his hands into the pockets.

‘You’re standing in the doorway staring as if it was a big deal,’ Natasha points out, her voice a tone softer. ‘I know you don’t have any plans, I still have secret access to your calendar and all that. We’re not doing secret Santa, in case you’re wondering. It’s just turkey and sides and chocolate cake. Maybe not fancy enough for a billionaire?’ she teases. Tony smiles weakly.

‘Thank you,’ he says, knowing that he would have turned around and walked away if she wasn’t there in the right moment. Something is telling him that she was waiting for the right moment, but he isn’t about to say that aloud. ‘Hey, guys,’ he greets the kitchen team, trying to keep the tiredness out of his voice and not really succeeding.

‘Hey, Tony – didn’t know you were back already. You look tired. You staying with us though?’

‘Of course he’s staying, Cap,’ Clint rolls his eyes, ‘he wouldn’t miss the great food and me-made and the best almond cookies of the universe.’

‘He’s not lying. Much,’ Natasha mutters in agreement, making her way to the stove where mulled wine is cooking. Tony presumes. The rooms smells like mulled wine and it makes him remember every Christmas he spent with Happy.

‘I knew you love me,’ Clint flashes Natasha a smile and goes back to observing the turkey, crouched in front of the oven as if it was going to help.

‘I didn’t know we’d be having – a thing, I didn’t get you guys anything. I can still make sure of something,’ Tony says, frowning slightly.

‘Just sit before you fall over, moron,’ Bruce tells him fondly, not tearing his eyes away from the gingerbread house he’s decorating. Tony doesn’t even try to ask, just stares with fascination how the candy decorations get stuck to the roof with scientific precision.

‘I –’

‘You gave us home –’

‘And a reason to celebrate,’ Natasha finishes Clint’s sentence effortlessly.

‘Here, drink,’ Cap just says, placing a cup of the hot and spicy drink, and shoves Tony into the chair.

‘Ten more minutes,’ Clint announces and everyone breaths in, making the suspense even thicker, and Tony finally feels the indoor warmth run down his spine, the snow and ice from the outside forgotten, as he wraps his hands around the mug.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank your for reading, I hope you get some warm holiday feelings :) This is kind of an apology story for not giving you the next chapter if the Manhattan series that I almost promised (tumblr people know that ;d), have some Christmas shudders in the meantime and I'll go back to my writing.
> 
> If you were nice enough to leave me a word I'd be very happy, due to my moving abroad I'm not getting any presents this year and your comments would be more than an amazing substitute <3


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